As you may have discovered, once you start hitting the gym regularly, there is a lot of upkeep. You've got to keep your workouts "fresh" and motivating, drink a gazillion gallons of water, and carry out a post-workout stretch despite that what you really want is to be carried out on a stretcher. But it's those behind-the-scenes preparations needed to expose bare body parts under scathing fluorescent light that really require commitment. Granted, I may not tra-la-la in Emerald City, but I do what I can to avoid a mental breakdown at the sight of myself in the gym's wall-to-wall funhouse mirrors. I keep a tweezer handy for removal of the white nylon fishing wire that grows out of my chinny-chin-chin (which none of my so-called friends have the decency to mention to me). I apply a fresh layer of waterproof makeup before teaching my classes because exercise coaching from Yoda is not as inspiring as one might think. I spray paint the spider veins above my knees--thank you Miss Sally Hansen, and I polish my blackened toenails/talons out of consideration for my locker room companions. From top to bottom, I am confident that I have it covered about being uncovered. Well, I mean, I was, until my dear friend, Ellen, revealed my utter neglect.

“You’ve never had one?” she scowled in disbelief. “What’s the matter with you?”

Well, apparently, so very much. But honestly, up until that minute, I had not realized just what a barbarian I was. Frankly, I thought I was being super fastidious, grooming daily with my trusty twin blade disposable Bic.

“You have to go see Hanni and get yourself waxed.” she insisted. It sounded like she meant now. “You go there and tell her I sent you. She does a great job.”

“Does it hurt?” I asked, realizing the absurdity of the question the minute it left my lips.

“It’s not that bad”, she assured me. “I’ve been doing it since I was 20.”

Ellen is my GPS for all areas of sophistication. She has "fashion sense". She does grown-up lady stuff. She is refined without being pretentious. And she doesn’t do pain on purpose. She gets a facial, maybe a manicure…and a wax, so how bad could it be? Eager to rectify my apparently urgent situation, I called and made an appointment. Ellen told me not to shave for a few days...eeww...

Hi, my name is Sasquatch and I need an emergency waxing...

After arranging to do the Hokey Pokey and throw my whole self in, I was ushered into a little room where I sat contemplating whether or not I needed to explain that I did want to at least keep my eyebrows. Hanni, an all-business woman with a sleek figure and a heavy accent, burst through the door and instructed me to lie down on the butcher-papered table. Apparently, there is not a lot of chatter before a chicken gets plucked.

Silly girl, I thought. It’s a spa treatment. Relax. I closed my eyes and prepared to be pampered. Time to be a real lady, like Ellen, I thought.

“Jest relox”, Hanni ordered.

Then something terrible happened. Wicked hell-fire erupted at my ankle followed by a dagger-like pain and a bone-chilling scream.

The scream apparently came from me and scared the hell out of Hanni who was now clear across the room.

I opened my eyes, expecting to see my ankle aflame and a knife jutting into my tibia but there was nothing to see except Hanni, preparing the next swath of molten lava. And then, like that moment you realize that your GPS has directed you into excruciating traffic with no turn-around in sight, it occurred to me that I had just veered onto the Hanni Highway to Hell. I tried to convince myself that this was just an initial reaction, like the first step into a Jacuzzi, but I was quite sorely mistaken. My follicles were apparently rooted directly into my skeleton. I let out a ghoulish howl as she yanked out a little bone marrow with each hair.

I’m pretty sure this is how they do an exorcism.

“Oy my Gawt. You are always such deh bick beby? I never hert such dis cryink.”

“Why you moofed now? Oy, now dis is…oy, wax in dare…oy, okay, you hef to vipe dis you self now…”

It seemed there’d been a depilatory accident of a gynecological nature. That last outburst resulted in the hot waxing of my innards. This was an exorcism gone bad, witnessed by me, my Gawt, and Hanni. Hanni looked at me with contempt as I "viped" .

The next 45 minutes are somewhat of a blur. I believe a co-worker came in to see if Hanni was okay (She hert deh scrimming). I lay limp and listless until Hanni summoned me to rise and pay out front. I left the salon amidst whispers, like a scorned Salem witch.

It was a rough exit, but I have to admit it, I was pretty damn smooth. Couldn't wait to get to the gym with my new silky legs. To my horror, however, Satan returned just two days later, sprouting demon seeds from my knees. For that kind of torture, all I get is two days? Oh, hell no. There will not be an Exorcist II.

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Loren Martz

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